Is it over yet?
by plasticugliness
Summary: Can I open my eyes? Post-Reichenbach tragic... reunion soon... t for some smut that may become M...
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all! This is a Sherlock fanfic of after Reichenbach! I really hope you enjoy!**

John Watson stared bleakly at himself in the mirror, his eyes dull and devoid of any hope that had previously filled them. His hair had grown out from its military issued crew cut, shaggily shaping his face, which held 6-day old facial hair.

John didn't care to shave. John didn't care much for anything anymore. The only reason his beard was 6 days old and not 6 months old was because of Mrs. Hudson's constant nagging at him to fill the Sherlock shaped gap in his heart.

Three years. Three years of this. Three years of loneliness and missing pale porcelain skin and soft dark curls. Three years of alcohol induced fits of rage and three years of emptiness. Three years without his Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson's figure appeared behind him in the mirror, breaking his silent reverie. She gave him a hesitant smile, as if she didn't trust him to react in an appropriate manner. He supposed there was evidence to support her fear, but it still hurt that his adopted mother figure always had her guard up around him nowadays.

"Love, don't you think it's high time you left the house? It just won't do having you all miserable for days on end. How about you and I go for a shop, yes?"

John's expression morphed to a strained smile.

"No Mrs. Hudson, you go on though. I have work to do."

"Are you sure love?"

"Quite sure. Do have a nice time. Be careful, alright?"

"I always am dear. I'm not made of glass you know!"

As Mrs. Hudson left the room John sat up and flipped open Sherlock's phone. Sherlock had made his last call on John's mobile as he had yet again nicked it from him so that his number wouldn't be recognized. John scrolled through his recently sent texts forlornly, still desperately clinging to the last pieces of his long gone friend. John had memorized every conversation on this device. However he still loved to look at them again. It made Sherlock seem more real. Without this proof of Sherlock, this proof that he hadn't been lying all along, he would never have survived. Even Sherlock would not have gotten so far into his character. He read over some conversations between Sherlock and Lestrade. A chuckle escaped his lips. Only Sherlock would say 'you need me because your humanoid animals can't seem to function without a ring leader, and that keeps you from actually accomplishing a job you are already only half-decent at doing.' A tear had dropped onto the screen, he realized. John wiped it off. He hadn't realized he had been crying.

John-the soldier with nerves of steel-cried often lately. He hadn't realized there were so many different types of misery, So many different ways to cry. There was the sniffles and sad eyes that Mrs. Hudson was prone to do. There were the pathetic whiny tears of Molly Hooper. There was the scruffy throat clearing and tear wiping of Lestrade. John cried like lestrade in the public eye. But in the privacy of his bathroom, sobs that had been ricocheting inside of him finally sprng loose, the pain to deep and too intense to remain inside him. Sometimes he could barely breathe and he would begin to hyperventilate. Those were the sobs of someone with a broken heart. John usually cried in the manner of a broken man. It wasn't just his heart that was broken. It was him as a person.

John silently cried, shaking, tears streaming from him until he had none left in him. Today was a day with the very worst crying. Today John had no more tears left. All John could do was stare ahead at the smile crudely painted over Mrs. Hudson's ancient wallpaper. The bullet holes in the smile reminded him of how dangerous Sherlock could be when he was bored. John hated when Sherlock got bored. When Sherlock got bored he was cruel and thoughtless and ridiculously irritating. He used to wish Sherlock didn't exist when Sherlock got bored. Now all John wnted was Sherlock back again.

_I don't care if he's rude and harsh. I don't care if he is constantly bored or even if he constantly shoots the wall. Hell, I don't care if he's a bloody maniac. _The thought of a maniacal Sherlock made the ghost of a grin turn up the corners of John's seemingly permanently turned down lips. _Sherlock is a bloody maniac already. Was. Is. I don't care if he marries fucking Moriarty. I just want him to come back. _

John stared at that panted smiley face and felt rage curl up inside of him. His mind went blank and a scream overtook him. His mind was chaos and he had no idea what was going on but then again he never knew what was going on anymore. Not since he left.

John found himself a breadth away from the face staring maliciously at him from the wall. Two dimensional. Not him. Not moriarty. Not Sherlock.

"I hate you! I hate your smile I hate your face!" screamed John, his fist rapidly slamming against the wall.

When John calmed his fury his fist was red, raw and bloody. His voice softened and his eyes filled with tears for the third time today.

"I hate you…" he whispered forlornly, his fist sinking to the ground and his knees instinctively curling into him for a fetal position.

John laughed a miserable hollow laugh, his voice shaking almost hysterically .

Outside the sounds of life, as Rich-Jim Brooke-Moriarty described the city sounds, soldiered on, oblivious to the fact that the soldier had stopped soldiering on and had lifted his white flag to the sky, waving it in shame.

It was then that the Soldier realized that he couldn't survive without his consulting detective.

"Sherlock" He whimpered, his voice wavering softly.

"Sherlock, I believe in you."

**I will update soon! Please R and R and I'm sorry for being so unactive but I've been in and out of treatment and kicked out of school due to my depression and eating and anc]xiety! Love you**

**xxxgem**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi guys! Here's my second chapter with a reunion scene! Which is going to be continued in the next chapter! I'm sorry I'm a bit slow as an updater but I have far too many things to accomplish and I have a job writing now! Please enjoy the chappy and RnR**

_Hello. _

Hello? Who am I speaking to?-JW

_I cannot share that information with you._

If this is Molly trying to cheer me up I will show Scotland Yard your blog-JW

_Dear god Molly has a blog? Is it disturbingly cute?_

Dear god yes-JW

_My Dear John… I pity you. Does it have kittens?_

YES.

Wait, Dear John? Who is this?

_Goodbye John. Until next time._

John remembered. He remembered Sally approaching him, asking what had happened. John Remembered.

"Why so sad John?" came Donovan's voice. As usual it was filled with sarcasm, not entirely meant to harm, but certainly not to be nice.

John stared at her blankly, grief and denial preventing his words from spilling out.

Sally's eyes were playful, her tied back hair managing to spring from its restraints and frame her sarcastically smiling face.

"Did the freak break up with you? It's for the best you know. Maybe coin collecting is a good replacement?" She continued, trying to make the older man smile with her comments and constant hobby suggestions that would often cause his lips to curve upwards. Today, those words hurt. Today he wanted to slap the cocky woman for saying such things. Instead John said in no more than a whisper

"You were right"

Donovan's brow furrowed in confusion, her eyes losing their zestful glint.

"I'm always right. What am I right about this time?"

John couldn't laugh. Instead he stared at this woman with pure hatred in his eyes. She had been right. This woman had prophesized the worst moment of his life and he felt and almost unbearable loathing towards her because of this.

"We are standing around a body. Sherlock Holmes p-p-p…" He trailed away, his voice quivering into silence, unable to finish his sentence anywhere but in his own mind.

_Sherlock Holmes put it there._

"You're kidding" She said in response, skepticism and despair riddling her pretty face.

Donovan shoved through the crowds to glimpse the still, bloody body of Sherlock Holmes lying limply atop the rough sidewalk.

Sally's eyes widened to an almost inhuman size. She stretched out her fingers as if she wanted to touch the body lying on the ground to ensure that it was real.

"John, I-"

Sgt. Donovan stopped when she realized the blonde man had left her side.

John remembered. John Remembered Sherlock's deductions and how he really did figure things out, how he really would get confused at times.

"I don't understand how this can-I just-make me some tea!"

John remembered laughing at Sherlock's pouting and making a brew to ease his friend's frustration, putting in two sugars. Sherlock thanked him, a surprising feat for him.

"John, do you understand? Why don't I understand?"

John had smiled reassuringly, putting a hand on his forearm.

"Sherlock, even you sometimes get things wrong."

Sherlock's face clouded over in total frustration.

"No that happens to other people like you and Anderson who have boring tiny brains! I don't even have any leads! I-"

Sherlock's face morphed into that look. That 'oh' look when he figured something out.

"oh"

John smirked at Sherlock's episode. This was very much a recurring scenario and it always made John crack up.

"John I've got it!"

"Good Sherlock. Now drink your tea."

John remembered every little thing about Sherlock. He remembered the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled a genuine smile. He remembered the downright bitchy attitude he had around Anderson. He remembered the way he looked at Mrs. Hudson. He remembered Sherlock's hatred of the solar system.

John remembered Sherlock Holmes. Now John wanted Sherlock Holmes back.

_Hello John._

Seriously who is this?

_I am incapable of telling you._

What? Just tell me or I will block this number.

_Don't. I need to tell you! _

Tell me what? Who you are?

_No._

Then I don't really care.

_I need to tell you. I'm so sorry John._

Sorry?

Who is this?

Who are you!?

HELLO?!

_Goodbye John_

Sherlock smiled down at the screen of his new mobile. He did miss his John. Sherlock couldn't help but find it rather amusing at John's complete lack of trust. More than four years he'd been out of the military, and he still had trust issues, as his therapist put it.

Sherlock really did miss John. Despite his inferior intelligence, John was quite precious to him. Precious and special in ways no one had ever been special before. That was why he had to fake his death. No one was more important than John, and Sherlock would rather kill everyone else on this planet than kill John. Sherlock knew that was both irrational, overly sentimental, and a complete weakness, but he would rather be alone with John forever than alone without John.

Sherlock wished he could contact John. He wished he could give the shorter man a tight embrace and fall to his very knees apologizing for leaving the soldier alone. Sherlock missed the way John would make him tea. John always performed the task with far more concentration than the task typically required. John's face would scrunch up like a hedgehog almost and he would stare unwavering down at the tea he was brewing as if the results may greatly impact his life. However this painstakingly perfect brewing process always resulted in the most splendid cup of tea Sherlock had ever experienced. He would swear that each cup was better than the last, eliciting a chuckle from his Dear John.

Sherlock didn't know what he truly felt for John. He knew he loved him dearly, but wasn't entirely sure if he was in love with the sweater wearing doctor or weather John was merely his best friend.

Sherlock decided it was time to do something. He needed his John more than he would ever admit to anyone ever, including himself. Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, telling himself he was only partaking in a nice evening stroll. Sherlock knew this wasn't true and he knew what he was doing. The thing is he simply didn't care.

Sherlock's long legs took strides past chattering groups of cheerful London dwellers. He hid his face beyond his coat collar, preventing and recognition of the fallen detective. Sherlock walked for a very long while, his legs growing tired and his body begging for a sit on the nice bench at the right. Sherlock couldn't deny his aching calves this luxury and sat down gingerly, looking down and covering his face in shining leather kid gloves. Sherlock sat, completely still, his head resting in his palms. He didn't even flinch when a canoodling couple bumped into him on their quick dash for a motel. He didn't look up when someone spilled a coffee on him. He didn't look up at the squealing baby that sat beside him in a stroller, mother desperately trying to silence her child with a pale translucent pacifier. He did look up when he heard the voice. Sherlock recognized that voice. Sherlock hadn't heard that voice for three years. Evidently the bench he had felt compelled to sit on was right in front of 221baker Street, 221B to be exact.

"Shut up Harry! I'm fine!"

Sherlock peeked up, feasting on the image of John Watson screaming at his sister on Sherlock's old cell phone. John was thinner, around 143 pounds, his fisherman knit sweater baggy on him. John's eyes had large dark circles beneath them, and his pupils were dilated and glassy. John's anxiety was heightened, he could see by the shaking of his hand while chatting with Harry.

"I'm not going mad Harry. I just miss him."

_Who is him? Not me. Three years have passed…_

"I wasn't in love with him Harry! I just. I just. I needed Sherlock Holmes, Harry! I loved him."

"I love you too John"

Came Sherlock's deep, monotonic voice.

Sherlock's old phone fell to the ground, shattering in a way that phones usually shouldn't.

"Sherlock?"

**So that was that! I hope you guys enjoyed it! Please read and review! Anything you wanna say! It will give bunnies wings. I love you all and I will update faster this time! **

**Xxx gemma**


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